Chapter 3: Calculating the Years
The heavy double doors of the foyer clicked shut, the sound echoing off the marble floor with the finality of a courtroom gavel. Marco didn't take off his coat. He stood by the arched entrance, his dark slicked-back hair catching the fading golden light that angled through the tall leaded windows. He looked smaller in the cavernous space, yet his presence filled every corner of the room.
I kept my hand pressed against the top of the balustrade, my knuckles white. Upstairs, the faint shuffle of Mrs. Gable’s sensible shoes told me she had taken Leo safely down the long north corridor, away from the cold draft of the front hall and away from the man who owned the very air we breathed.
"How old is he?" Marco’s voice was low, flat, stripped of the polished authority he usually wore like armor. He stepped forward, his leather-soled shoes striking the stone in a steady, unhurried cadence.
I didn't answer. I looked past his shoulder, out through the glass panes toward the iron gates where the black luxury sedan still idled, its exhaust forming small white plumes in the late afternoon chill.
"Isabella," he said, closing the distance until the sharp scent of his cologne—sandalwood and expensive rain—cut through the dust motes in the air. "Look at me."
I turned my chin up, forcing my breathing to stay even. "He’s a child, Marco. He has nothing to do with this house or what happened four years ago."
"Four years," Marco repeated, testing the syllables on his tongue as if weighing a coin. His gaze dropped from my eyes, tracking down to the hem of my floral skirt, then flicking back up to calculate, subtract, and arrive at a number he clearly hadn't anticipated. "You left in November. The first week. A Tuesday. You took nothing except a single suitcase and your mother's opal ring."
"You remember the date," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "How touching."
"Don't play games with me." His hand came down on the mahogany table near the entryway, the wood groaning under the pressure. "November. Add nine months. August." His eyes narrowed, pupils contracting as the math clicked into place behind them. "August of the following year. A blond boy with blue eyes who hides behind his mother's sweater the moment a stranger raises his voice."
"He hides because he’s five," I lied, the fabrication tasting like ash on my tongue. "Children are afraid of loud men. You’ve always been very good at being loud."
"He's five," Marco said, ignoring the jab. He stepped closer, invading my space until I could see the tiny silver threads woven into the fabric of his black tie. "Which means he was born precisely ten months after you walked out of those gates. Ten months, Isabella. After we spent three years visiting specialists in Geneva and Boston trying to solve a problem that, apparently, wasn't mine."
"You think the world revolves around your bloodline," I whispered, feeling the hot prick of tears behind my eyelids that I refused to let fall. "You think every breath taken in this county has to be accounted for in your ledger."
"I think," Marco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "that someone who lived under my roof for four years doesn't just vanish into thin air and reappear with a child who looks every bit like he belongs in a portrait hanging in the east gallery."
He reached out, his long fingers brushing against my wrist before I could pull away. The touch wasn't violent; it was precise, clinical, like a magistrate verifying the authenticity of a document. I jerked my arm back, clutching my elbow against my ribs.
"Keep your hands off me," I said.
"We are going to settle this," Marco said, turning away to pace toward the tall library doors. He pulled them open, gesturing for me to enter with a flick of his wrist. "Quietly. Inside. Where the servants don't need to hear your excuses."
"I don't have excuses. I have a life that doesn't involve you anymore."
"Your life stopped existing the moment you crossed that threshold tonight," Marco said over his shoulder, standing in the doorway of the dim, book-lined room. "You brought him back here. You brought him to my gates. You thought you could slip away before dark, but you didn't. Which means a part of you knew you were coming home."
I didn't move. The shadows were lengthening across the marble floor, stretching toward my feet like grasping fingers.
"A medical test," Marco said, his back to me as he stared out the tall library window toward the crashing surf below. "A simple, private verification. Dr. Sterling can be here by morning. If the boy is mine, he stays here where he belongs, with the security, the name, and the future he is entitled to. If he isn't..." He paused, his shoulders stiffening beneath the tailored wool of his suit. "...then you can take your suitcase and your opal ring and walk out those gates tonight."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "If I turn around right now and walk out?"
May you like
Marco turned slowly, his face washed in the gray twilight of the coast. The warmth of the golden hour was gone, replaced by the hard, flat light of evening.
"Try it," he said softly. "The gates are locked, Isabella. And the only key in this county is in my pocket."
